


How to Lose

by LaurynKavanagh



Category: Titanic (1997)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-03
Updated: 2016-10-03
Packaged: 2018-08-19 08:39:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8198576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaurynKavanagh/pseuds/LaurynKavanagh
Summary: Back home in Pittsburgh after the Titanic disaster, Cal wrestles with his emotions and confronts defeat for the first time. One-Shot. Inspired by the song She Will Always Hate Me by James Blunt.





	

**Author's Note:**

> So this is a little something I suddenly had the inspiration to write after listening to the song She Will Always Hate Me by James Blunt. Something about the lyrics made me relate them to Cal's situation, and what he possibly could have gone through after realising that he'd lost Rose. I'm not normally a one-shot sort of writer but I'm trying to use it as a bit of writing practice.
> 
> Let me know what you think :) x

It's safe to say that I am a pretty sore loser. Losing is not something a skill I am good at, mainly because I have never really had to. If you're rich enough, you never really have to do anything you don't want to. A situation can be avoided, a tough task can be pushed onto someone else, an official can be bribed. There is no better get-out-of-jail card than a crisp new banknote, quite literally in some cases.

So how did I get here? Staring into the flames of the fireplace, crystal brandy glass clutched in a white-knuckle grip, watching to light flicker from behind the cigar smoke. Alone. Without Rose. The ultimate loss.

The days had crawled by like years since the morning we were fished out of the Atlantic ocean. Everyone around me seemed to be locked inside a state of either shock or hysteria, but not me. Truth be told, I cared nothing for the enormity of the situation. All I cared about was recovering what I had lost that night. My most precious prize.

I had paced the decks of the Carpathia endlessly in search of her, my wife-to-be, but I had been unsuccessful. In the time it took us to reach New York, my inner frustration had turned to rage at not having found Rose. As the reality dawned on me that both she and that good-for-nothing gutter rat must have gone down with the ship, I was forced to accept, for the first time in my life, that I had well and truly lost the fight.

I hated it. This disgusting feeling, this wretched gut feeling of having been unsuccessful. The fires of injustice raged inside me for days on end. For days upon returning to my Pittsburgh mansion, I was plagued by frequent outbursts of anger. I smashed furniture, I hurled the crystal glasses at the walls, I even smashed my fist into a manservant or two (in the months after the disaster I had a long line of replacement Lovejoys, whom had also gone down with the Titanic, having failed to retrieve both my treasures. Useless fool). The flames of fury relentlessly burned everything in sight, until I eventually burned myself out. I collapsed into the armchair in front of the fire, exhausted, and there I stayed, scarcely leaving the fireside for days.

I found I had no strength left to be angry. I had no energy left to be angry. It is an exhausting emotion to have so much of. With the absence of anger, all I was left with was grief and melancholy. As I wiled away the days staring into the flickering light of the fire, all I could think of was Rose, and how a simple crossing home to America to be wed had us to this; her, most likely drowned at the bottom of the Atlantic, and me, sat here alone, drowned in my own shallow heart.

I thought back to what seemed like many years ago, back in England and France, and the happy days we'd spent planning our wedding. I was not foolish enough to assume that Rose had wanted to marry me. Marriages in this world are matters of agreement, of trade deals, and alliances. Nevertheless, that didn't mean I wasn't fond of her, even if she didn't return the favour. She was young, beautiful, a little too spirited for my liking, but surely that would dim with age. I remembered when I'd placed the engagement ring in it's box in front of her; a staged proposal in front of French society, and requested that she accept my proposal of marriage. She'd smiled, told me how lovely the ring was, and after an obligatory peck on the cheek, she'd not spoken directly to me again until the time came to say goodnight.

I remembered the night I was called by a steward to the stern of the Titanic, to attend an incident involving my fiancee. The irritation of having been caught up in such a scene, and how laughable I'd thought it that she had been so eager to stand up for that Third Class ruffian. I had chuckled at the occasion at the time. Oh how I wish I had known.

Rose may have nurtured a silly dream of acting, but she never fooled me. It was clear as day to me that she hand't just "slipped" that night. The make up streaked down her face and red swollen eyes suggested nothing of the sort. Nevertheless, like any husband would be, I was concerned by the fact that my future wife had wanted to throw herself off of the ship. A silly over-dramatic performance, of course, but nevertheless, I thought the diamond necklace would cheer her up.

You see, I've never been one to express too much feeling at one time. I don't think most men of my standing are. Emotions are a sign of weakness, and a weak man will never win the respect of his peers. Even if I could see Rose's obvious unease in my presence, and her displeasure with life in general, it wasn't in my instinct to indulge her with comforting talk of my feelings for her. A representation of my affection for her in the form of a diamond was the best I could manage. Words are worthless when money can buy love - that was the method I'd lived by.

And whenever emotion did overtake the situation, it was usually anger. I remembered how I watched her practically leap into another man's arms, having jumped off of a lifeboat to be with him. Oh God it hurt, seeing that. I think that was the moment I realised that she never truly belonged to me. And how did I respond to my hurt? The only way I knew how. Try to eliminate the competition. By any means possible.

I recalled the terrified look in her eyes as I'd thrown over the breakfast table and shouted threats at her. The moment I'd stormed out of the room I'd regretted it. I hadn't meant to snap so harshly. It wasn't that I didn't care, it's just that I never truly learned to use my heart in that way; gently, with kindness instead of force.

When I thought back to my past cruelties towards her, I felt regret flood every inch of me. I never meant to hurt her. I couldn't help it. It's just something I do.

Perhaps that's where it had all gone wrong. Perhaps money couldn't buy the answer to all problems. Perhaps if I'd known how to solve the flaws in our relationship with words instead, she wouldn't have ended up killing herself by running off with Jack Dawson to get away from me.

I sighed and ran a hand through my greasy, unkempt hair in frustration.

This was all so wrong. I was Caledon Hockley, renowned steel tycoon and king of a vast financial empire. I wasn't supposed to be the one sitting alone in the dark, defeated.

I took a swig of brandy, grimacing as the bitter liquid washed over the lump forming in my throat, in an attempt to quench the rising tide of another unfamilar feeling inside me.

Grief.

Grief for the life I would never have, proudly with Rose on my arm. Grief for the lost opportunities to save what little we had before it was too late. Grief for ever allowing that thief to ever steal her away from me, right under my nose. I found myself wishing with all my might that I had a second chance to put things right.

I had loved Rose. She had been precious to me. More so than the diamond I'd tried to replace these words with. I could never take back what I had done, but I would have moved Heaven and Earth to make things right. But in my heart I knew that not a word I said would have made the slightest bit of difference. Even if she hadn't been dead on the ocean floor, Rose had always been far too stubborn. She would never have accepted my words even if she had been alive to hear them. That ship had sailed. The love was gone. No matter what I said, she would never have forgiven me for the things I'd done. She would always hate me.

As I poured the last drops of brandy into myself, I choked out a laugh to myself. So this was how it was done. To confess your mistakes to your own heart, and wrack yourself with torment at the inability to fix them.

I closed my eyes as the sweeping shadow of alcohol-induced sleep washed over me, triumphant at least in the knowledge that in all this, I had mastered a new skill.

I had learned how to lose.


End file.
